Night Falls, Daylight Breaks
by Nyx Raisa
Summary: Love is a four-letter excuse. You can do whatever you want to anyone and they'll sit back and take it, because they love you, because they think you love them. Look at you. You're still here. Read warnings inside plz!
1. Night Falls

**Notes/Warnings/Disclaimer: This is dark. There is violence and anger and dub-con (dubious consent) sex. I don't want anyone to come back at me crying bawww, okay? Life not always rainbows and butterflies. I had intended to do this more as a direct songfic to "Snuff" by Slipknot, but the connection ended up being tenuous at best, but I'm alright with that. I recommend you listen to that song, just because it's good. I don't own that song or the lyrics from it I snuck in here. I also used a (modified) Stephen King quote, I don't own that either. Finally, I don't own either of these guys. They belong to Vince, themselves and Melina and Maryse, respectively. =] There may or there may not be a part two, it depends on how I feel about it. Okay. Are we all prepared? Have we been suitably warned? I hope so. Now. Go forth, read, and review. I always like to hear when I don't suck. xD**

John stretched beneath him on the bed, his shirt discarded to some dark corner shortly after he'd entered the room. His wrists were pinned above his head, the bones grinding in Mike's tight grip. He shut his eyes as Mike nibbled a none-too-gentle path down the side of his neck, biting firmly where neck met shoulder. John groaned and arched his hips, seeking friction, but Mike moved just out of reach, laughing under his breath.

His eyes remained closed as Mike showed similar attention to the other side of his neck, biting down even harder. For a moment he thought that he should warn the other man about leaving marks, but he knew it would be futile. Mike didn't care about the marks he left on John's skin, didn't care about the excuses he would have to make outside of this room.

Mike bit down on John's lower lip and his eyes fluttered open. He raised his head and parted his lips, hoping to entice Mike into kissing him. As the younger man leaned down, and John shut his eyes in anticipation, music blared from the nightstand beside them.

With a muttered curse, Mike released John's wrists and sat up. He grabbed his phone and then rolled his eyes when he saw the name on the call ID.

"Maryse," he said, and reached down, covering John's mouth with his hand. He touched something on the phone, cutting off the chorus of Framing Hanley's "Lollipop" mid-sentence.

"Hey baby," Mike drawled, his voice sickeningly sweet. John could hear Maryse's tinny chattering through the phone, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. Mike was sitting on his thighs, staring intently down at him as he spoke, his cool smirk betraying his cheerful tone.

"Aww, I'm sorry to hear that. Can't you reschedule for another time?" Mike took his hand away from John's lips, fixing him with a warning glare. He switched the phone to his other hand and let his fingertips drift down John's bare stomach, pausing just above the waistline of his jeans.

"Well, why don't you ask one of the Bellas to go with you?" His hand dipped lower, fingers now tracing the ridge of John's cock through the denim. John pressed his lips together in an attempt to keep silent but he couldn't keep his hips from rising to press more firmly into Mike's hand. The hand lingered for a moment, and then moved back up, stroking John's midsection.

"Honey, I don't know what to tell you. You know as well as I do how busy my schedule is. Why don't we…." He trailed off and his lips quirked in annoyance as Maryse interrupted him. John reached for Mike's hand, hoping to direct it back towards his groin, but Mike smacked it away with a sharp crack. He ignored the wounded look on John's face, focusing the best he could on Maryse's latest dilemma.

"Listen, we have a couple more days off coming up, and we'll do something special then, okay?" Mike's voice was gentle and consoling, but the look he fixed on John was cold, cold. He felt his breath wanting to catch under the ice of Mike's eyes.

"Okay, we'll figure it out later. I love you too. Bye babe." He pressed a button and tossed the phone back towards the nightstand. It hit the edge with a clunk before bouncing to the floor.

"Now…" he murmured as he reached for the button on John's jeans. Much to his surprise, however, John pushed his hand away. Mike watched with growing agitation as John sat up, shoving the other man's shoulders.

"John, what the fuck." He moved off of John's legs before he could be pushed to the floor. John ignored him, walking around the bed and searching the floor for his shirt. He kept his back to Mike as he located his discarded shirt on the other side of the room and slipped it on, smoothing out the wrinkles. Mike had enough of this silent treatment. He walked in front of John and grabbed the sides of his chin with a rough hand, making it impossible to not look at him.

"What the fuck _is_ this? You think you're going somewhere?" John grabbed Mike's wrist and pulled the hand away from his face.

"I'm leaving."

"No, you're not." He leaned a shoulder against the wall, his voice bleeding dead certainty.

"Get out of my way, Mike." Without waiting for the other man to move, he pushed past him, walking towards the bedroom door. Mike grabbed his arm above the elbow, his fingers digging into his skin, pulling him backward and then holding him in place.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

John yanked his arm out of the grip and whirled around; Mike was surprised by the anger that flashed in the other man's eyes.

"I'm done. I'm tired of lying to everyone, of trying to balance this… thing with the rest of my life. I'm tired of hearing you lie to Maryse. I'm not doing this half-assed sneaking around bullshit anymore. I lost Melina because of all this. I want something real with you or I'm done."

"Oh, Jesus_ Christ_, John. Not this shit again. Save your fucking breath. How many fucking times have I heard this shit from you? I fucking _told_ you—" Mike could feel his pulse begin to rise; how many fucking times was John going to bring up this relationship shit? Relationships were for pussies who didn't know how to get what they wanted any other way. Or if you needed a good cover.

"I know what you told me. And I'm done, I'm gone."

An unamused grin crossed Mike's face. "Oh, I've heard that line before too."

"I know. But this time I mean it. I walk out that door, and I'm not coming back."

"Fine. Go." He waved a hand dismissively towards the door before crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."

But John made no move, and for a moment they stood staring at each other; John waiting for Mike to tell him to stay, Mike simply waiting.

"You honestly don't care. Even after all this time." John's eyes, large and deep and soft, seemed to set something off within him, and adrenaline shot through his system in red sparks.

"Quit with that fuckin' puppy dog shit, John. It doesn't suit you," he warned.

"I don't know why—"

"Yes you fuckin' _do _know why. How many times have I _told_ you? You knew going into this what this was gonna be about." He could feel his head beginning to pound in time with his racing heart. This was not want he wanted to be doing. He wanted to be getting laid, damn it.

"Yes, I know. You made it very clear. But Mike, I—"

Mike was in front of him, shoving him backwards into the wall before he could finish speaking.

"You want to stop right… fucking… there. Or I swear to God, John, I will not be responsible for my actions."

John reached for Mike, not dropping his steady gaze, and very gently laid his fingers on his cheek. His skin was flushed, burning with anger.

"I'm not like you. I can't stand here and pretend that all of this doesn't mean anything to me."

Mike stepped back and John's hand wavered in the air for a moment, then dropped back to his side.

"Get the fuck out of here," Mike spat, turning his head away.

"No."

"What do you mean no?" He turned back towards John, eyes wide and disbelieving. "That was not a fucking _suggestion_. Do I need to clarify it for you? Get the fuck out or I will beat the shit out of you." He raised his arm and cocked it back. "Say one more wrong thing, John. I dare you."

John was silent, his gaze darting from the fist held over Mike's shoulder to his wild grin. To his eyes, that at first glance were full of a dark, smoldering rage but he thought – or perhaps only wanted to imagine he thought– there might be something else lurking among the depths. Something sane and rational. His gaze darted back and forth. Fist. Eyes. Grin. Fist. Eyes. John closed his own eyes and took a deep breath, knowing he was about to provoke a very dangerous reaction.

His eyes opened again and he met Mike's murky gaze steadily.

"I love you."

Mike's fist arced out and slammed into the side of John's jaw almost before the last word was all the way out of his mouth. The motion had been such a reflex he hadn't even thought before his fist was moving through the air. He had pulled the punch at the last second, but not by much.

John's reached a hand up, cradling the side of his jaw, covering his mouth, his hair curtaining his face. His breathing seemed very loud in the silent room. Mike examined his hand. There was blood on his knuckles. Dull pain started to throb through his hand. He wiggled his fingers. His hand would probably be sore in the morning, but it didn't seem like anything was broken. John raised his head and watched this cursory examination take place. His heart was roaring in his ears, throbbing in his jaw and split lip. As soon as he realized he was being watched, Mike looked up, meeting John's eyes through sweaty strands of hair. Blood oozed from between the other man's fingers and a bright red trail slipped down the back of his hand.

After a moment John moved slowly away from the wall, watching Mike with wide, stricken eyes. Mike let him pass and listened as his footsteps faded off in the direction of the kitchen. After a moment he heard all the familiar sounds of a makeshift icepack; water running, the freezer opening, the clunk and rattle of ice cubes. Mike took a step closer to the wall; a fine spray of blood droplets caught his attention, bright crimson against white paint. He touched the spots lightly with the tips of his fingers, leaving a smudged fingerprint. That had been a hell of a good hit; an absurd sense of pride rose within him, all but drowning out the guilt and horror he otherwise might have felt.

Footsteps alerted him to the fact John had returned. He stood in the bedroom doorway, an old kitchen towel pressed to his jaw and over his mouth, hiding the damage.

"Are you bleeding all over my kitchen towels?"

"Yeah, well, fuck you too," John mumbled, his voice muffled by the icepack. "How the fuck am I going to explain this?"

"I didn't fucking break your jaw, did I? Tell everybody you walked into a door."

"No, but it fuckin' hurts. You split my lip."

"Oh geez, ya baby. There's some codeine in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom if it's that bad."

"Oh, taking pity on me now?" John couldn't help but raise a sarcastic eyebrow.

"No, you fuckin' deserved it, jackass."

John huffed and turned around, this time disappearing into the bathroom, rattling through various pillbottles. Mike sat on the end of the bed, staring blankly ahead and flexing his hand unconsciously. The rage had mostly snuffed out with that one strong hit, although he could still feel it simmering somewhere backward in his bones. All John had to say was another wrong thing. He should have just let him leave in the first place. But then he had to pull that puppy-eyed horseshit and look what happened. He could feel anger pulsing through his veins again at just the thought of it. _I love you._ Jesus Christ.

He didn't realize John had left the bathroom until he was sitting beside him on the bed. The makeshift icepack was still covering the brunt of the damage, but it was clear that his lower lip was beginning to swell, and in spectacular fashion.

"I fuckin' warned you," Mike muttered, glaring over at John. "I fuckin' told you and you had to push me. You couldn't have left when I told you to go. You ready to leave _now_?"

"No."

"For fuck's sake, John. Do you want me to break your goddamn nose too?"

"Well, I'd prefer it if you didn't."

Mike snorted in response. "Then you'd better get the fuck out, I make no guarantees."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. Mike stared down at his hands, the blood on his knuckles. The sounds of the city drifted in through the half open window; traffic and sirens and the lives of hundreds of complete strangers passing within scant miles of this increasingly insane situation. John shifted on the bed, readjusted the ice against his mouth, and waited for the slow pulsing ache to fade as the drugs kicked in.

"I meant what I said." That was probably the wrong thing to say. But he'd already said it once, been hit for it, and he wasn't going to back down now. Consequences be damned.

Mike stared at John in wide-eyed, incredulous disbelief. "You really are an idiot. I cannot fucking believe you. You think some stupid little meaningless _word_ is going to change a goddamned thing? It doesn't mean _shit_, and you know it."

"I don't know why it's so hard for you to accept."

"Please. Love? Love is an excuse. You can do anything you want to anyone, and they'll sit back and take it, because they love you, because they think you love them. Look at you. I could've broke your goddamn jaw and you're _still_ fuckin' here. What's it gonna take?"

John was quiet, opening his mouth to speak and then shutting it. A few minutes went by and it seemed he could not find any defense against Mike's cynical words. Finally he just shook his head slowly and stared down at the carpet beneath his feet.

"You can't change my mind about how I feel."

Although John didn't see it, a cruel grin spread over Mike's face.

"Are you sure about that?" He murmured. In a move so quick John didn't even have time to register it, Mike snatched the icepack away from his face. He threw it sidearm across the room where it hit the wall.. The bloodstained towel thumped to the ground, followed by a splash of ice and water. John's eyes were wide with shock, watching as water dripped down the wall across the room. His attention was suddenly diverted as Mike grabbed him around the nape of his neck, pulling him in and kissing him roughly. His swollen lip pressed against his teeth and he gasped in pain, twisting away from Mike's grip.

"Ow, Mike, Jesus—" He was cut off as Mike pulled him in again, kissing him even harder, if it were possible. He focused on the wound, tonguing the cut and biting down, enjoying John's pain-filled groans. He wove his fingers through John's hair, holding him in place as he mauled his injured lip. John found that his hands had stopped trying to push away and instead latched on the other man's shoulders. He tasted blood as Mike's tongue forcibly parted his lips and thrust into his mouth.

Just as suddenly, Mike pulled back. John's head spun, unable to fully comprehend the situation. He had time to run his tongue over his lips and wince at the sting of an open wound. Then fingers hooked into the hem of his t-shirt and in one forcible move Mike yanked the shirt over his head. He heard it hit the floor beside the bed and then Mike pressed against him, attacking his lips yet again. Warm hands grabbed roughly at him, fingers sinking into his shoulders, his lower back. They pushed him until he was laying back on the bed, Mike's body anchoring him down. The pain in his mouth and jaw were becoming secondary now, heat and desire and lust spiraling through him with every upward thrust of his hips.

The warm weight of Mike's body lifted and John opened his eyes, blinking dumbly. He propped himself up on his elbows as Mike first made quick work of his own shirt and then fumbled with John's jeans, yanking them off. John slid further back on the bed and watched as Mike tugged his own jeans off. He licked his lips, not even noticing the sting. Mike paused and watched with a smirk as one of John's hands stole down and wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly. He enjoyed the sight for a moment before joining John on the bed, hovering over his body, allowing him a few moments of pleasure.

"Enough of that," he muttered and grabbed both of John's wrists in hand, pinning them to the bed. John tilted his head back to look at his bound hands and then back up at Mike, a slight smile on his face.

"This seems familiar," he said softly.

"Shut the fuck up." His tone was equally matched to John's; quiet and unemotional, yet it hit him like a slap. His eyes widened and he pulled against Mike's grip. Mike held on tighter and smirked down at John. A cold chill trickled up John's spine; something was wrong here.

"You're not going anywhere. You should have left when I told you to leave. But no. You stayed. And now you're going to see exactly what love gets you."

"Mike," John warned feebly, still struggling. His heart was beginning to pound.

"Sorry John," Mike whispered. "It's too late now." For a moment he almost did seem sorrowful, biting the side of his lip as he looked down with wide, clear eyes.

Keeping both of John's wrists firmly bound in one hand, he slid his free hand around his cock and stroked himself to full hardness, smearing pre-cum over the tip. He released himself and switched the hand that was binding John's wrists, a sense of urgency overcoming him. Moving quickly now, he maneuvered John's legs apart and knelt between them.

When he realized what Mike was about to do, John began to struggle in earnest.

"Mike. Please don't do this. You made your point, I'll leave, you'll never have to see me again. Just let me go, okay?" He realized he was babbling, but Mike had never fucked him dry. The potential for overwhelming pain made him panicky.

"Shut up, John," Mike said again, still speaking quietly. With a few minute adjustments, he was pressed against John's entrance.

"Mike, no. Please—" he tried again, but before he could finish, Mike pushed slowly inside. What started out as a plea turned into a wordless cry as pain seemed to burn throughout his entire body. He turned his head away to he wouldn't have to look up at the man who at one point had been his lover.

When he was as deep as he could go, Mike paused for a moment, his eyes closed. John kept very still, hoping that if he didn't move, it wouldn't hurt as much. Even breathing seemed to echo pain all the way up and down his spine. He wanted to beg Mike to stop, but he couldn't find the words through this agony.

And then Mike began to move. Slowly at first, small movements, taking his time.

"How… do you… feel now?" Mike panted as he slammed into John. "Do you still love, John? How does it feel?"

John turned his head to center, looking up through his hair. Mike stared down at him, his eyes wild and unforgiving. He couldn't meet that gaze for long and closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"No? You're still… saying no to me?" He sped up, thrusting harder.

"Mike, please—" John whispered hoarsely, his voice raw.

As he sped up, he changed the angle of his thrusts just enough to hit John's prostate. John gasped in a shuddery breath, surprised at the heat that rose up through the pain. As if he sensed the change, the potential for pleasure, Mike released his hold on John's wrists and reached between them, curling his fingers around John's flagging erection, jerking in time with his thrusts.

John found his newly freed hands gripping Mike's shoulders instead of pushing him away. The pain began to fade, to be overtaken by heat and pleasure as Mike continued to speed up his ministrations. His hips rose to meet Mike's thrusts again and again and again, the pace now just short of frantic. He turned his head back and looked up at Mike; eyes closed in concentration, lips parted, breathing heavily.

Before he could stop himself, he slid his fingers around Mike's neck and pulled him down into rough, messy kiss. Mike's eyes shot open in surprise but didn't slow his movements. He met John's steady gaze and growled into the kiss, biting and licking, their teeth clacking together.

Then John's eyes slipped shut and he could hear his breath speeding up as heat pooled in the base of his spine. It was too much; the pain in his lips, in his jaw, Mike inside him, Mike's hand on him and his hips bucked up hard, once, twice and he moaned as he came. He felt his muscles clench and warmth pool on his stomach. A few moments later, Mike followed, thrusting hard and then falling still, whispered obscenities drifting from his lips. His head hung down, his forehead pressed against John's collarbone, John's hand still curled around the nape of his neck. He stayed still for a moment, catching his breath.

He seemed about to say something, but merely pulled out of John and then collapsed beside him, watching him warily from half-lidded eyes. John turned on his side, wincing as pain flared briefly in his guts, and pillowed his head on his arm. Before he could quite stop himself, he reached out and gently touched Mike's cheek. His eyes widened again and he reached out and wrapped his fingers around John's wrist. Then his eyes slipped all the way closed, not loosening his grip. John smiled slightly, his own eyes dropping shut.

Maybe Mike was right and he was an idiot. Maybe everything Mike said was true; even after everything that had happened tonight, John couldn't imagine leaving, couldn't imagine _not_ having Mike in his life. He'd given up too many things for this man already; he had nothing, no one else.

Exhaustion tugged at him with soft implacable fingers and he felt himself sinking away into unconsciousness, Mike's fingers around his wrist, grounding him. _There's gonna be hell to pay in the morning_, he thought as he drifted off into a dark, dreamless sleep.


	2. Daylight Breaks

**Notes: Okay. I had actually written this a while back, posted it and then my friend read it. She was pretty much like "I am confuse, what is this character failure?" And I got in a huff and took it down. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this is the only way this can end. Either it ends like this, or it ends with the first part. I know... it seems like a character fail, but you just have to trust me. I guess there is a third part coming which will -- I hope -- explain why there's such a sudden shift between "Last Night" and "This Morning". I hope that you will trust me. Because there is a reason. Please, leave me your thoughts. Even if it is to tell me about my character fail. I need your feedback to make this work.**

The room slowly brightened by imperceptible shades; pitch black, charcoal, slate, ash, tender pearly grey as the sun approached the horizon, sliding up to it, kissing it. Outside, the sky was streaked with orange and red and delicate rills of pink, growing brighter, becoming blue and golden. The sun finally peeked over the horizon, bathing the room in warm, golden light. As the sun crept higher into the clear blue sky, long bars of light began to form and drift over the cream-colored carpet.

The light moved across the floor, bringing into sharp relief bright rectangles of carpet and then leaving them again in darkness. They slowly passed over rust red drops staining the carpet, a crooked line of them leading to the door. Lingered over a damp, blood-stained towel crumpled in the corner. Investigated a reddish spray and drips and fingerprints down the white bedroom wall. Clothes scattered across the floor in haphazard piles.

One of these bars of light slid slowly up and across the bed, highlighting John's midsection, part of his forearm, the side of his jaw. As the sun continued on its unalterable course, the light curved across his face. His eyelids squinted tighter shut against the bright glare and as he surfaced entirely into consciousness, he opened his eyes.

This was a mistake; he immediately shut them again, throwing his arm over his face for better coverage. He lay like that for a long moment, letting his dizzy, dreamy thoughts float around his head, focusing on no one and nothing. Sleeping thoughts, comfortable thoughts, just-after-dreaming thoughts. As soon as he felt he could handle the daylight, he moved his arm back down to his side, brushing the side of his face.

The sudden flare of pain pulled him out of his semi-doze with a start, and the previous night's events came flooding back. Slowly, carefully he turned his head to the side, wondering if Mike was awake, if he would even still be there. It didn't matter that it was his house; there was never any guarantee Mike would be there when John awoke.

A second sleeping body occupied the bed, back turned to John, the sheets pulled just under his hips. He could hear light snoring and watched his shoulders move with the rhythm of his breath for some space of minutes.

John wondered how it was possible that this morning's peacefully sleeping man and the angry dervish from the night before could be the same person. Of course, it was thoughts like those that kept getting him into trouble.

_You should leave him_, a voice whispered from some deep corner inside of him. _You _need_ to leave him. He won't stop. It has to be up to you to make it stop._

John pushed that voice away as well as he could; it wasn't like he had to decide anything right at this moment, except maybe what to have for breakfast. And that he really needed to take a piss, although that wasn't necessarily a decision.

Quietly as he could manage, he pushed back the sheets and slid out of bed. He winced as he stood up; his ass was sore. _Maybe next time you should put up more of a fight, John._

He walked slowly to the bathroom, padding in and out of streaming sunlight. It wasn't until he felt the shock of cold tiles under his bare feet did he register the thought that had just crossed his mind. _Next time? There shouldn't be a next time. Take your piss, get dressed and go. And this time, don't come back._

He pissed with great relief, flushed, and moved to the sink to wash his hands. As he lathered, he glanced into the mirror over the sink. All cohesive thoughts and movements stilled as he took in the man staring back at him. His hair was disheveled, sticking out in odd directions and weird curls; that was typical par-for-the-course morning hair. What was not typical was his swollen lower lip, red and raw-looking where it was split. Blood had dried and cracked in one corner of his mouth. Additionally atypical was the dark blue bruise shading the edge of his jaw and curling up towards his cheek, and the swelling that went nearly all the way to his ear.

The water began to burn his hands; he quickly rinsed off the last of the soap, turned the water off and then continued his inspection. He gingerly pressed the tips of his fingers against the bruise on his jaw, prodding gently to determine the level of pain and swelling. It didn't take much prodding for him to hiss in pain. Steeling himself, he slowly cracked open his jaw. He opened his mouth maybe halfway before the pain became too much to bear.

So focused was he on his examination, he didn't realize Mike was awake or even out of bed until he strolled into the bathroom, brushing past John on his way to answer his own call of nature. John continued to stare at his reflection, completely unable to believe it was himself he was looking at. He'd had bumps and bruises, cuts and scrapes, black eyes and loosened teeth. But this….

The toilet flushed and he moved to the side, intending to give Mike room at the sink. But Mike merely paused next to him, watching him in the mirror.

"Don't you need to wash your hands?" John asked. His voice was sleep-rough, hoarse and somehow squeezed; it hurt to talk.

"Marines don't piss on their hands, son." Mike said absently, tossing out the punchline to some old joke. But he didn't take his gaze off of John's reflection, and there was no real humor in the words. They stared at each other in the mirror for a long moment, and then John tilted his head, bringing the side of his face fully into the glare of the unforgiving fluorescent lighting. He pulled his hair back, showing the full brunt of the damage, still not looking away from Mike's eyes in the mirror. _Do you see this? You did this to me. _

Mike's eyes widened slightly, but that was his only response. For a moment his eyes seemed to shift and grow hazy, as though recalling some distant memory, but before John could even do more than glimpse the look, his eyes focused again on John's face and grew sharp and cold. With a sigh, John dropped his hair and closed his eyes, wincing as a bright bolt of pain jolted through his jaw. He did not see Mike watching him with an expression that looked strikingly like remorse, had it been on anyone else's face but his.

He slid around John, being careful not to touch him, and opened the medicine cabinet, pawing through it. After a moment he reemerged with a bottle of pills in hand. He shook a few into his palm and dropped them on the sink next to John. He glanced down at them and picked them up. After a second, he raised his hand closer to his face and squinted at the unassuming white pills.

"Should you even have these?"

Mike smirked, but didn't answer.

"If I get caught—"

"It's exactly what they'd give you if you went to the hospital." Mike overrode him. "If you don't want them, give 'em back. You can sit there and suffer for all I care."

John tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed. "Thanks."

Mike made a noncommittal noise under his breath and leaned against the bathroom wall opposite the sink, still watching John in the mirror. "What are you going to tell Vince?"

"I don't know. I can't lie and said I got hit during a match, I haven't wrestled two days, and everyone saw me leave the last venue uninjured. Vince is going to crawl in my ass and never leave." His jaw began to throb as he spoke. "And it hurts to talk. I can't cut any promos… fuck."

Mike met John's reflected gaze, silent for a long moment.

"Tell him it was me."

John turned around, shocked. "What?"

"Tell Vince we were practicing and I caught you with my elbow or something. Accidents happen, he knows that. And I'll corroborate the story. And hey, maybe they can work it into your storyline." Mike still refused to look at John directly, looking everywhere but right at him.

John could only blink. "You don't… I'm sure I can think of something. There's no reason for Vince to crawl up both our asses. You don't have to do that."

"Yeah… I do," he said softly.

They fell silent, and John eyed Mike from across the room, wondering what exactly was meant by those words, wondering why Mike would want to take – and share – the blame.

With a heavy sigh Mike dropped his arms and crossed the few steps to John, scrutinizing his wounds without the mirror running interference. He reached up, thumb brushing lightly against John's cut lip, gently pressing his fingers to John's swollen jaw, much as John himself had done earlier.

"Tilt your head," he said quietly, and John obliged, allowing the harsh light to highlight his skin. Mike worked his fingers the length of John's jaw, from chin to just below his ear, being careful not to press too hard, listening for any sound or indication of pain. After thoroughly inspecting the extent of the injury, he dropped his hand and finally met John's eyes straightforward. For a moment it seemed he would speak; he opened his mouth, but closed it just as quickly. His eyes went cold and he pressed his lips together, looking down and away. He pushed past John, exiting the bathroom and leaving John alone.

John sighed, and turned on the cold water. He cupped his hands under the faucet and carefully rinsed his face, washing the remnants of dried blood from his lips, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was in the middle of finger-combing the tangles from his hair when Mike returned to the bathroom, now in boxers and holding a dishtowel. It wasn't until he held the towel against John's jaw, and he felt wonderful, blessed coldness, did he realize what it was.


	3. Father's Son

**Notes/Warnings: This part deals with abuse and domestic violence. Please use appropriate caution in reading it. I am not nor have ever been in this situation, but I did my best to portray it as accurately as I knew how. If you or someone you know is in this type of situation, please, please please please talk to someone, get help, and get out of there. **

The muted roar of the flushing toilet was what finally dragged him out of sleep. His dreams that night had been dark, more memory than anything else. He blinked up at the ceiling, his mind blank except for the last dirty fragments of his dreams that even now he was pushing away, reminding himself he had escaped, he was on the other side of the country, and his past was not going to eat him. He had overcome.

Until he heard the sounds of water splashing in the sink and he realized he was not alone in his condo this bright morning. For a moment his sleep-fuzzy mind couldn't remember who it was. Maryse? No, Maryse was visiting her family in Canada for the weekend. She had called him last night. Last night… when he… he was…

_Oh, fuck._

Mike sat up quickly and threw the sheets back, sitting on the edge of the bed. His head was pounding, his temples throbbing as he leaned over and buried his head in his hands. Overcoming his past? Fuck that, his past had eaten him, digested him and shit him out whole. He ran a hand over his face as the previous night's events bloomed in his mind; John lying warm and willing beneath him on the bed… and then Maryse had called, John got some kind of bug up his ass about the whole thing – like _now_ was the time to grow a conscience – and he had lost his temper. John had given him those goddamn puppy eyes, threatened to walk out for the third or fourth time, and he'd just… lost his temper.

The rest of the night was a murky reddish blur, only scattered bits and pieces standing out with any sort of clarity. John's big sad eyes, for one. His fist driving into the side of John's jaw, the impact jolting his arm nearly all the way to his shoulder. The taste of John's blood, heady and salty and sweet on his tongue, sparking something dark and primal within him.

John with his back pressed to the wall, staring at a cocked back fist, fear all over his face… and still having the courage to tell him he loved him.

A vision rose behind Mike's still closed eyes, a little boy crouched and cowering in the corner of the kitchen, staring up at a huge, monstrous figure with bright blue eyes just like his own. He shook his head to dispel the memory.

It wouldn't do to dwell, not when he still had to figure out how to deal with the man currently occupying his bathroom, and the best – and quickest – way to get him out. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, drawing his indifferent, devil-may-care persona over him like a cloak, burying into "The Miz" like a child would hide under the blankets for protection from the boogeyman.

He strode to the bathroom to take care of his business – that involving John, and that which didn't – priding himself on maintaining his cool and indifferent exterior even in the presence of John's wounded eyes. His control slipped, just for a moment, when John turned his face into the light and Mike could see, with perfect undeniable clarity, exactly what his anger and his fist had inflicted.

(_Dear god please I am not my father's son)_

The pain and accusation on John's face was clear – _you did this to me_ – and an apology that would never, ever be spoken rose to Mike's lips. John ducked his head and his hair fell mercifully over his face; the moment John's eyes were off of him, he sighed with relief. The pain and resignation in his eyes was entirely too much. It reminded him somehow of his mother.

He didn't need to think of that either. _Focus, Mike_. With a little internal shake, his clamped down on his emotions again and focused on the best course of action. Pain meds. It was clear how much pain John was in, and – physically, at least – that was easy enough to take care of. He had to press close to John to reach his medicine cabinet and he found himself oddly averse to touching him… as if the damage hadn't already been done.

John took the proffered Vicodin gratefully, if suspiciously, and as he watched John in the mirror, a question occurred to him.

"What are you going to tell Vince?" John looked surprised for a moment and then his expression faded into dismay. His own words from last night echoed in his head – _Tell everybody you walked into a door – _and he knew he had to take some of the blame. This was his fault, _he_ did this, and he was going to man up and accept the responsibility. With an internal smirk, he wondered wryly if his father would be proud of him.

The shock on John's face was worth it though, even as Mike found it difficult to maintain eye contact, unable to stomach the look in John's eyes without the mirror between them. When he did look up again, however, there was confusion written all over John's face… but the pain and resignation that had been there previously was gone. He couldn't take his eyes off the purple-black bruise spreading over John's jaw, the swelling turning his pretty countenance into something grotesque and misshapen._ He_ had done that.

Swallowing hard, he stepped forward, reaching out to properly inspect the damage he had inflicted. He gingerly pressed his fingers along John's jaw, watching his face closely and listening for any sounds of pain. It didn't take much pressure at all for John to close his eyes, and when Mike's fingers brushed over the brunt of the damage, he couldn't contain a hiss and wince of pain. Mike dropped his hand, knowing even that slight reaction was significant; John was one stoic motherfucker.

As he met John's eyes, a sense of despair washed over him. All the things he had done, and tried to do, to escape his past. He ran away to Brooklyn, and when that wasn't far enough, he went to LA. He tried to become someone else; a loud, obnoxious, arrogant, selfish man, upholding it as best he could even when he wasn't in the ring. Most people didn't – or couldn't – see past it, which was all the better. He had the absolute epitome of a California gorgeous woman in Maryse, with her big tits and bottle-blonde hair and long legs, although in truth he could barely bring himself to touch her most of the time. He was rarely ever alone; he had tons of acquaintances, red carpet events and Hollywood parties and WWE appearances to occupy what little free time he might have had otherwise.

And yet, despite everything he had done, everything he had changed and everything he thought he had left behind, his past had caught up to him. Staring at him out of John's eyes, from the cut on his lip, the bruise overwhelming his jaw, the dried blood still clinging to one corner of his mouth. Proof undoubtedly positive that no matter what you did, where you went or who you became, you could not escape your past… or what you were fated to become.

For a moment, an apology trembled again on Mike's lips; surely the first spoken apology he had uttered to anyone since he was sixteen and had slapped his girlfriend in the middle of a heated argument. He opened his mouth and then shut it just as quickly. The fact of the matter was that apologies were useless. And meaningless. How many times had his father apologized? How many vases of hastily picked wildflowers or store bought hothouse roses had his mother tittered over? How many Indians games and WWF shows had his father taken him to? How many times had his father looked at him with wide-eyed surprise and chagrin, somehow always taken aback to find Mike injured, the look that said _Oh jeez, Mikey. I did it again, didn't I? It'll never happen again, I promise, _the look that made Mike want to simultaneously hug his father and punch him in the face, see how he liked having to explain a black eye or a broken nose for once.

Thousands of memories shuffled through Mike's head as he left the bathroom, pausing at the dresser to snag a pair of boxers and making his way to the kitchen. He looked around at his condo as he walked through it, barely recognizing it anymore. The lavish decorations, the expensive toys, the wall full of his accomplishments meant absolutely nothing. He thought he had come so far, but now it seemed like his past was about to come spilling through the walls and take him over, as if his newly redecorated kitchen was nothing more than a poorly painted canvas stage dressing.

He pulled up one of the stools and sat down at the island, propping his arms against the cool granite countertop, his head once again in his hands.

_I told you, Mikey. You got a temper on you, same as your old man. Can't fight genetics, boy._

"Shut up, dad," he muttered into the palms of his hands.

_Just the facts, son. You know I never liked telling you harsh truth of the world, but ya gotta hear it. I been tellin' you your whole life, Mikey. You ready to listen _now?

"I'm not you, I am _nothing_ like you."

_That twink in your bathroom may beg to differ. Though I don't know what the hell you're doing shacking up with another guy, didn't I raise you better than to be some kind of prancing limpwrist faggot?_

"Why don't you shut the fuck up and leave me alone? It's none of your fucking business."

_Don't you give me no lip, boy, I'm making it my business. Sooner or later you're going to have to see what's right in front of your face. You're my son, you will always be my son, and you've grown up to be just like your old man. Just like I always said you would._

"No, no, NO! Shut up, I'm not you, I'm not anything like you, I'm _not_. I'm not…."

With two final words, the voice of his father faded out and Mike came back to himself, realizing he was sitting bolt upright at his kitchen counter with his hands clamped over his ears. He slowly dropped his hands back down to the countertop, staring around his kitchen with wide eyes, wondering if he had yelled loud enough to attract John's attention. Very faintly, the sound of running water in the bathroom reached his ears; when the sound continued unabated, he assumed his outburst had not been heard. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, his breath shuddering in his chest.

Sunshine angled through the window over the sink; the light glinted off the stainless steel appliances, sparkled off the granite countertops. Mike looked around, struggling to reassert his place in this life. His father was 2500 miles away, on the other side of the country, probably mouldering in some dingy stale-beer scented kitchen that bore absolutely no resemblance to the open, sunny, pleasant room Mike was currently sitting in. He hadn't seen the man in almost fifteen years, had spoken to him maybe three times since then and he shouldn't have to listen to him anymore. He had overcome, god damn it.

As Mike continued to look around the kitchen, grounding himself in the reality of his life and all he had achieved, his gaze fixed on the freezer and he considered his father's words. He pushed back the stool, grabbed a towel hanging out of the drawer from John's quick rummage the night before and crossed the room. As he opened the freezer door and reached for a handful of ice, his father's voice whispered far back in his mind.

_Prove it._


	4. Taking Responsibility

**Notes: Remember when I said I was done with this at part three? I lied. I have a fourth part here. And guess what. Extensive planning has already begun for a prequel. And a sequel. Yes, that's right. NF, DB is now the MIDDLE of this whole arc. And I know you are going to want to know what happens after this, but you need to know what happens before, first. So keep an eye out on my author's profile page for updates on those progress of those two fics. No particular warnings for this chapter. The thoughts and actions contained herein do not accurately reflect the thoughts and actions of their real-life counterparts. **

After a moment John reached up to take hold of the icepack, his hand brushing over Mike's. His fingers were cold against his palm and John lingered for a moment, trying to impart some sense of heat. But before he could do more than cover the cold flesh, Mike pulled his hand away and stepped back. John closed his eyes in defeat and readjusted the ice on his face to better cover the worst of the swelling. Between the vicodin and the ice, he felt something approaching normal again. He couldn't help a little sigh of pleasure as the pain faded to a dull throb.

When he opened his eyes again, Mike was sitting on the tile floor across from him, his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest. He stared up at John, seated on the closed toilet lid, his eyes wide and clear and bright. There was something so odd about his attitude now, his posture, even the look on his face that John couldn't stop the absurdity even as it rose to his lips.

"Are you okay?"

Mike blinked. Slowly one corner of his lips curled into the slightest smirk, although there was nothing threatening about it this morning.

"Am _I _okay? I'm fine, John. Shouldn't I be asking you how you are?"

He shrugged with one shoulder. "I've been better. I've been worse. I'll probably live. If Vince doesn't kill me."

At this, Mike's gaze shifted away from John's face and he became strangely interested in the bathroom floor. "I told you—"

"I know what you told me. And I don't understand why you would do that. Last night you couldn't have cared less, and this morning you're offering to take the blame. Is this some kind of a game, Mike? Because if it is, just tell me now."

"What? No. John, listen." He paused and glanced up at John before taking a deep breath and directing his next words to the tile floor, or perhaps the grout. "I can't… defend my actions last night. I have no excuse for what I did and what I said. And I… I'm… the least I can do is take some of the blame. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't be in this situation. It's my fault and I'm going to take the responsibility for it, okay?"

It was John's turn to blink dumbly, staring down at the top of Mike's lowered head. He had known Mike for nearly three years, and had been intimately acquainted with him almost from the very beginning and thought he had known Mike as well as he could ever know anyone. He had seen him laugh at stupid jokes, had heard him rap, watched him struggle, watched him achieve his dreams at his side, watched him fall and get back up, watched him nervous before a match and celebratory afterwards, seen him aggressive, angry, and yes, even violent. He had never once in all that time seen Mike like this. The only thing stopping him from sliding to the floor and wrapping his arms around this complicated man was the fact he wasn't entirely sure it wouldn't provoke him in some way, and the last thing he needed was a black eye or a broken nose to add to his list of not-quite-explainable injuries.

So he fought the urge to hold the man he loved, swallowed back the question if he was alright, and merely said "Okay."

Mike looked up at him again, still with that wide-eyed look that seemed to drop ten years off his face, if not more. His lips quirked into a quick smile and he echoed a soft "Okay."

John returned the smile as best he could, although it hurt one side of his face even under the ice and painkillers. "So…. We were practicing. I mistimed a move and ran into your elbow. And then crashed face first into the mat. That should explain all this, right?"

He took a moment to consider and then Mike nodded. "Well enough, I guess."

"I could just tell him I fucked up a Starship Pain. You don't even have to be involved in this at all."

"John." Mike's eyes flashed, and for a moment he looked like the wild, unpredictable man from the night before. But the look faded quickly and John released a breath he hadn't realized he had sucked in. He held his free hand palm out in a "hey, peace" gesture.

"All right, all right. I don't understand it but I'll go along with it. It's really no big deal though. I mean, I'm a grown man, I can take my lumps—"

"_John._"

He threw both hands in the air this time, although one was still full of damp towel and partially melted ice. Mike glared at John for a long moment and then his expression faded into one much harder to read.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. It has a lot to do with my… my father." His voice was barely loud enough to carry the short distance to John, and he continued to stare down at the tile floor. John didn't respond, but watched Mike with a cautious gaze. As a rule, Mike rarely ever talked about his past and his family. He had made various offhand references to his mother and stepfather, had taken days off work to go to their wedding and his step-sister's graduation, but never said anything about his father. After a while John had just assumed his father was either dead or had not been part of the raising of his son at all. But watching the myriad emotions flicker across Mike's face - anger, loss, betrayal, sadness, replacing each other in turn so quickly he could hardly recognize them – John realized there was a great deal about Mike's history that he simply did not know.

"Your father," John said, struggling to keep his voice gentle but not patronizing. "I understand a lot of things, Mike. Try me." He had to clench his free hand into a fist to keep from reaching out for Mike.

Mike raised his head and propped his chin on his knees, staring up again at John with eyes so wide and guileless that he was again struck, almost disconcerted by the effect; he was sitting in the bathroom with a complete stranger.

"I don't want to talk about him. My whole life I told myself I would never be like him. I made myself a promise. And now… I think…." He trailed off, his voice wavering slightly on the last few words. In spite of his control and all his hard-learned knowledge, John could no longer help himself, and slid to the floor, kneeling on the cold tile beside Mike. The icepack dropped unnoticed to the floor as John reached out, touching Mike's shoulder and then his face.

"Mike, talk to me. Please. You can trust me. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

He watched as Mike closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to his knees, his shoulders shaking with the force of his breathing. John readjusted his position beside him, carefully draping one arm over his shoulders and curling one hand around the nape of his neck, all the while trying to steel himself for a potential violent outburst.

"Please. Talk to me. Let me… let me help you." He pressed a kiss to his temple and Mike shivered under his hands, moving almost imperceptibly into the comfort of John's arms.

From the bedroom, an electronic tone blared. Both men jerked in surprise and John cursed under his breath. Mike fell still as the tone repeated.

"Your phone is ringing," he whispered.

"Ignore it," John muttered as the ringing stopped mid-tone. A loud beep followed a moment later, signifying the caller had left a message, and the room fell silent. He ran his fingers through Mike's hair, struggling to recapture the moment when, it seemed, Mike was finally about to let him in.

The phone rang again.

"_Damn_ it." John whispered through clenched teeth. He tried to ignore it but he could feel Mike pulling away, both physically and mentally. "Mike, wait."

"Go answer your phone." His face was still pressed to his knees, his voice flat and dull. John pulled his arms away and rose to his feet, intent on finding his phone and reading the riot act to whoever was on the other end of the line.

He hurried out of the bathroom and located the crumpled, half inside-out pile of his jeans at the foot of the bed, his phone ringing from the inside of his pocket the entire time. Without bothering to check the call ID, he flipped open the phone and barked, "What!"

"John?" The person at the other end replied in a small voice.

"Melina?" John blinked in surprise, and then glanced guiltily over his shoulder at the open bathroom door.

"Don't you check your caller ID?"

"What's going on? To be honest, I wasn't expecting to hear from you again. Ever."

"Listen John, I'm really sorry for the things I said, they were out of line and there's no excuse for that, but—"

"Yeah, no shit." John glanced at the bathroom door again; he could almost feel Mike listening to him.

"But something's… something's happened and we need to talk."

"We are talking."

"I mean face-to-face."

"Can't you just tell me now? I really don't want to see you again."

"No, this really isn't something we can talk about over the phone. I'm in LA right now, maybe we can meet for lunch somewhere?"

"Melina—" John closed his eyes and squeezed his temples with his free hand; he could feel the makings of a throbbing headache, beating in perfect counterharmony to his aching jaw. She interrupted him before he could continue, speaking quickly. John fell silent and listened, his eyes growing wide as Melina rushed through her story. He resisted the urge to ask several biting, angry questions and made plans to meet her for lunch two hours hence. With numb hands he ended the call and took a deep breath. How had everything gone so wrong so _fast?_

He grabbed his jeans from off the floor, pulling them rightside out and slid them on, tucking his phone back in his pocket. His shirt was on the other side of the room and he tugged it over his head, absently smoothing out the wrinkles, and looked toward the bathroom again. He forced himself to move, doing his best to prepare himself for the confrontation he knew was waiting.

Mike had taken his place atop the closed toilet, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his lead lowered.

"Mike—"

He raised his head sharply and cut John off. "Was that Melina?"

"Yes. Mike, I have to go."

"What did she want?" With growing unease, John watched as Mike's eyes became sharp and cold, his face carefully blank. The emotionally unstable man he had just been sharing the bathroom was rapidly slipping away, the façade of cold indifference rising like a curtain. Or a wall.

"I… I can't tell you. But she needs me right now and I have to go. I don't want to leave you, but –"

"Get out." Mike seemed to bite the words off, and he turned his head away.

He took a few steps further into the room, being careful not to get too close to Mike.

"I'm so sorry. If it wasn't something extremely important, I wouldn't leave. But she needs me… this is bigger than both of us."

"I don't care. Go away. Get out."

John took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He had no idea why he felt the need to try and explain himself to Mike; he wouldn't listen and he wouldn't care, no matter how much he tried to justify it. But neither could he just leave without an explanation. Not when he had nearly succeeded into seeing beyond the walls Mike had carried around for so long. He would never get another chance.

"All morning you've been talking about responsibility, how you were going to take responsibility for… for what happened last night. Now it's my turn, I did something and now I have to take the responsibility for it."

Mike raised his head slowly and looked over at him. A cruel smirk twisted across his face and John took an instinctive step back; he was knocked by the sudden and hellishly complete transformation Mike had made.

"What'd you do, John? Knock her up?"

John glared for a moment, but lowered his head and made no effort to reply. The smirk on Mike's face disappeared and dropped into a gape of surprise.

"Oh… my… god. You have _got_ to be kidding me. I cannot believe you. I know you fucked her, but Jesus _Christ_, John! Have some fucking responsi—oh wait." The smirk returned to his face. "Well, better late than never, I guess. Gonna do the right thing and marry her? Buy a little house in the suburbs with the picket fence and the golden retriever in the front yard? And anyway," he added with a sly sideways gaze, "What makes you so sure the kid's yours?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Mike threw his head back and laughed, the sound harsh and jagged. "Please. Don't try to defend her honor now. It's no secret she was off fucking Batista and god only knows who else most of the time you were dating. I'm pretty sure if it was on the roster and it had a dick, she's fucked it."

"You son of a—" John stopped midsentence, taking a closer look at Mike's face. The smirk across his face now had a knowing quality to it. Almost as if…. "Oh my god. You didn't."

"Only once," he said nonchalantly. He paused and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And trust me, you are a _much_ better lay than she is."

John slumped against the bathroom countertop, his mouth opening and closing a few times in shock. For one of the few times in his life, he was absolutely at a loss. None of this seemed real; Mike's rapid changes in mood in the past twelve hours, Melina calling him after two months and telling him she was pregnant, Mike's offhand confession…. With a low groan he raised his hands to his face, barely feeling the pang echoing across his jaw as the heel of his hand grazed it.

"So…" Mike's voice, dripping with false consideration, echoed in his ears. "If you're really gonna go through with it, does that mean we have to stop fucking?"

John raised his head and glared across the room. "What is _wrong _with you? How can you even… what about Maryse? You're engaged, for fuck's sake! At least I had the common decency to tell you about Melina first. I didn't find out about you and Maryse until I walked into RAW and saw the fucking congratulation party!"

"What _about_ Maryse?"

"You fucking hypocrite." John watched with a bitter sort of triumph as the cocky smirk slipped off Mike's face, replaced with a look of complete disbelief, complete with his second gaped jaw of the morning.

"What?" His voice was hushed with incredulity. "What did you just say to me?"

"You heard me. You're a fucking hypocrite. You talk all morning about _responsibility_. That you fucked up and you were going to take the _responsibility_ for it. You were all about doing the right thing, so how dare you give me shit for trying to do the same. Was it all just an act this morning? Another one of your little mind control games? I bet you're full of shit about your father, too. What story were you gonna feed me about him?"

Mike was on his feet, his hands fisted in the already wrinkled cotton of John's t-shirt before he could even suck in a breath after concluding his speech.

"You don't know _shit_, so why don't you shut your fucking mouth?" He growled, pushing him backwards, the unyielding edge of the counter digging into his lower back. John grabbed Mike's hands, prying his fingers off his shirt and pushing him away hard enough to knock him back a step.

"What're you gonna do, Mike? Huh? Gonna hit me again and then pretend to feel bad about it? Break my nose this time? Come on. Go right ahead and do it. Come on, you fucking liar. Come on. I _dare_ you."

Mike's hands clenched into fists at his sides and his lips, pale and bloodless, pulled back into a snarl. He made no move forward, however, and John couldn't resist goading him just a little more. He spread his arms wide, inviting whatever action would follow.

"Come on. Come on, Mike. I won't stop you. I won't even fight back. Prove me wrong, Mike. Come on. _Prove it_."

He stood with his arms out, the blood pounding through his veins, the rage he was feeling the only thing that seemed to make sense in this whole fucked up morning. When Mike still made no move forward, he dropped his arms back to his sides with a thump.

"That's what I thought."

Some of the fight had gone out of Mike; his hands had unclenched and his shoulders dropped. The change was so slight that, if John had not spent the previous three years acclimating himself with Mike and all his subtle physical clues, he might not even have noticed. At the sudden, albeit subtle, change in mood, John felt his own anger begin to subside. Mike looked beyond shocked by John's words, and he wasn't sure if he felt pleased with himself for finally causing such a reaction, or horrified that he could have been so thoughtlessly cruel.

"Mike—" he started, not even sure what he was planning to say.

"Get out of here. I don't ever want to look at you again." His voice was soft, almost uninflected but for the tension John could hear running through it. Mike was always at his scariest and most unpredictable when he was quiet; loud was his natural state of being. Quiet was not.

For a long, tense moment they stared across the small space at each other.

"Get. Out."

John paused a moment longer, but the look on Mike's face brooked no argument. There were no more words, no excuses, nothing left to be said. The last vestiges of this strange unnamable urge that couldn't even be properly called a relationship shattered to the floor around them, John's hysterical words still hanging in the air.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the bathroom, pausing in the bedroom long enough to yank his shoes on his feet and heading for the door. He did not turn around behind him, telling himself the furtive noises behind him were in his imagination. Mike had not moved from the bathroom, staring in wide-eyed disbelief as John walked out of his life without so much as a goodbye.

The doorknob slipped through John's weak grasp, but he finally managed to pull the door open and slide into the hallway. He closed the door behind him, hearing the soft thunk of the wood against the doorframe, the click of the latch as it caught and locked. The handle slipped from his grasp and John stood in the hallway, the enormity of what just happened catching up to him. He lowered his head, his hair in his face, his chest heaving for air. A door had locked behind him, more than just oak and metal hinges; three years of his life was now suddenly behind him. Could it have really been so easy? Such a small movement, and yet nothing would ever be the same again.

Before he could stop himself, he reached for the doorknob, forgetting briefly that the door had locked behind him. But no. He had made the decision and there would be no going back. Slowly, slowly he lowered his arm. Was he really just going to… walk away? Just like that? Walk away from the strange, difficult man whom he had loved, had lost almost everything for, had hurt and been hurt, had walked away from time and time again, only to return? Was this really the last time he would leave? Would he, as insane and unthinkable as it seemed to him, really not come back?

A soft scraping noise came from the other side of the door, interrupting his thoughts, and his heart leapt into his throat. Maybe Mike had changed his mind; it had happened before, maybe things weren't so far gone as to be irreparable, after all.

But a minute, two minutes, five passed and there was nothing. No sound. No further movement. With a deep, unsteady breath, John turned from the door and walked slowly down the hallway and towards an uncertain future. He had promised Melina. She was all he had left now.

Mike left the bathroom a moment later, hearing John scuffle for his shoes and then leave the room. He followed John's footsteps through the condo and heard the door latch shut a moment before he reached the landing. He hadn't even seen him leave. Was that it, then? John had finally listened to him, had finally left. There would be no turning back after this. Not anymore. Not with all the things that had been said, unable to be recalled or taken back.

His legs were shaky, a residual effect from all the adrenaline that had just been flowing, or so he assumed. The door, one and a half inches of solid oak sat solidly in its frame, a barrier between so much more than just his apartment and the outside world. He stared at it, waiting for it to open, waiting for John to come crawling and begging back, as he always did. For some reason, this idea did not fill him with loathing as it normally did. John had listened. He should be pleased. How many times had he told him to go? He should be thankful that John had finally taken his advice. He didn't have to worry anymore. There would be no more embarrassing lapses like the one that had taken place less than an hour earlier.

He reached out for the doorknob, rationally telling himself he was only going to check to make sure John had really left and wasn't loitering in his hallway like a creeper. His fingers ghosted over the handle, and then the wood of the door itself. No, he decided. It would look weak if he were to open the door. Even if John had left, it would look weak. It would feel weak.

Oddly enough, it felt like his legs were going to give out – goddamn adrenaline rush – and he changed tactics, leaning his back against the door. That wasn't enough to hold his weight, however, and he slid down to the floor, his bare skin skidding against the wood. The floor was cold against his legs and he brought them up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The chill still seeped into him and he began to tremble. He hunched a little further into himself, turning his head and pressing his cheek to his knee. He'd get up in a minute. Just as soon as the rest of the adrenaline worked its way out of his system. He had stuff to do.


End file.
